The Daughter of an Earl (9 page)

“Very good, sir.” Greenfield dipped his head, appearing to be pacified.

“This gentleman was certain the piece his friend purchased was one of A. W. Grant's?” Brett said.

Greenfield shrugged. “I asked the same. He said the painting had Grant's signature on it.” Greenfield paused, but after a moment, he lowered his voice. “It is not our policy to divulge information about our patrons or their interests in a particular item, but in light of your friend's choice to remain anonymous and his inventory is slim, I will make an exception in this case.” Greenfield glanced around the shop as if to ensure they were not being overheard.

Brett frowned, wondering at the man's manner.

“You might wish to inform the artist that interest in his work has reached another level. This gentleman who visited us is from one of the most prominent families in England. In fact, he himself has come into a dukedom.”

Brett froze.

Reverence dripped from Greenfield's voice as he continued. “His father and his heir recently died in a tragic accident, so this gentleman has suddenly found himself holding the title.” He lowered his voice further. “It is the talk of the ton as he was originally fourth in line.”

“Prescott!” Brett muttered.

Greenfield blinked. “Yes, well, as I said, I do not like to mention names, but I see that we understand one another. Needless to say, when an exalted member of the peerage deigns to sponsor an artist, a fashion, or a sport, it does tend to set a trend.” He shrugged. “Look at the impact Beau Brummell made on fashion. You would be wise to tell your artist friend that it is in his best interest to increase his output.”

“I will do so. Without naming names, this esteemed customer visited the shop how recently? A few weeks ago? Sometime last month?”

“I believe it was a few weeks ago, early March.”

“Did he happen to mention the name of his friend who had purchased one of A. W. Grant's paintings in Kent?”

Greenfield tapped his fingers to his lips, considering the
question for a moment, and then nodded. “I suppose I can divulge that as the individual was not a patron of ours. He said Lord Haversley had bought the painting. I believe he said it was an oil of a four-rigger lost at sea.”

“Thank you. This has been most interesting.” Brett dipped his head.

“Please do remember to pass this information on to the artist. And do let Mr. Grant know we are most honored to carry his paintings, and hope to continue the relationship. I will leave you to your sisters. Should they or you have any further questions, I am, as always, at your service.” Greenfield bowed, and then left Brett with his churning thoughts.

How the devil had one of Drew's paintings ended up in a shop in Kent?
Of course, Drew would be concerned over the question as there was the small matter of payment for the purchase. The shop in Kent would have no way of giving A. W. Grant his portion of the sale because they did not have his address—or his identity. Drew did not need the money, but he would not appreciate being fleeced. Nor did Brett. He frowned, disturbed at this turn of events.

“I saw you talking to Mr. Greenfield. Was he helpful?”

He turned, finding Emily had stolen upon him. “He was a wealth of information. In fact, do you think that at any of your scheduled events, we might, perchance, encounter a Lord Haversley?”

Emily thought for a moment, and then nodded. “He is engaged to Lord Dayton's daughter, so he should make an appearance at the earl's ball, which we are attending tomorrow night.” She lowered her voice. “Is he a friend of your cousin?”

He wondered why everyone had this sudden compulsion to lower their voice. Feeling perverse, he leaned toward her and dropped his own. “I am not sure, but I would like to speak with him and determine that.”

Emily scowled. “Is this another one of your stipulations? You demand to know all my plans, but I cannot inquire anything of yours?” She made to turn away, but he caught her arm.

“My apologies. I was teasing. My cousin visited here recently. He was interested in a painting that Haversley has recently purchased, and I want to hear more about it. And learn if Haversley has any information about my cousin's whereabouts.”

“A painting.” She looked intrigued. “Any particular artist?”

“He's an American. A. W. Grant.”

Her eyes widened. “I know the artist. Daniel owns one of his paintings. It hangs in his billiard room.”

“Not anymore.” Brett grinned. “I won it off of him in a fair wager.”

“But Daniel said he had won it off of you in a game of cards,” she said.

He shrugged. “Cards are not my forte. Billiards are.”

“I shall remember that,” she said, amused. “So you, Daniel, and Lord Haversley all are collecting this A. W. Grant's works. They must be very valuable.”

“You have no idea. Pity the artist is a temperamental pain in the . . . ah . . . neck. Or so I have heard. Now then, have my sisters narrowed down their selection of gown styles to a mere hundred?”

“Miranda has. She has wonderful taste.” Emily smiled. “As for Melody, we may be here awhile yet. Returning to another matter, when your friend from the East India Company sends word that he has the information that you requested, I would like to meet with him as well. You stipulated that I do not pursue matters without you. Well, that is . . . that is my stipulation as well. That you do not pursue anything without me.”

“I do not—”

“If you do not agree, I must advise you that your sisters have a fitting with Madame Duchard, the French modiste, next week. I might find myself too busy to escort them, so you would have to schedule the time to do so.”

He had to admire her audacity in getting her way. She was very skilled at it. “I was going to say that I do not have a problem with that. Now threatened with a trip to the
dressmaker's, I surrender to your terms. As I said, I am on your side. For now—or until things become dangerous and your lovely neck is threatened with—”

“I understand. And I can agree to that.”

When she smiled at him, something tightened in his chest. He resisted the urge to run a finger around the soft curve of her cheek and across those beguiling lips. He tamped down the wayward yearning and cleared his throat. “Shall we collect Melody? I think she should be ready—or not.”

“One can hope.” Emily grinned.

It was wise that his sisters had accompanied him on this trip to London.

While he was protecting Emily, they could keep him safe—from her.

E
MILY
sidestepped a pile of manure that polluted the unswept street lining the Thames. She lifted her handkerchief to her nose as the stench of raw sewage and other debris that littered the river wafted up to them. The cacophony of sounds provided another assault to her senses.

Costermongers peddled their wares, horses' hooves clacked on the pavement, and carriage wheels rumbled over rutted roads. Harried men bent on their destination weaved through it all, while boys, ragamuffins in tattered clothes, bellowed to one another. A nearby group of them kicked a ball.

Her arm was looped through Brett's, and the warm, solid strength of it was reassuring. They were heading toward the dock area where the offices of Curtis Shipping were located. It was a far cry from the posh environs of Mayfair and the Strand and as alien to her as a gentlemen's club, because one never ventured south of the Tower of London. But Emily refused to be left behind while Brett met his contact from the East India Company. For this clandestine venture, she
decided against taking a chaperone. Instead, she wore a cloak with a concealing hood. In light of the unique location, she was confident that the chances of someone in her social milieu seeing her alone with Brett were slim to none.

“We can turn back if you would like,” Brett offered. He dipped his head, studying her face as if he could see her nerves jumping like skittish rabbits. “I asked him to meet us at our other offices on Craven Street. That is where we meet with our investors and clients, but he refused to venture out of the Wapping district, not wanting to leave the environs of the docks—”

“It is all right. I insisted on coming,” she said. She refused to retreat because beneath her nerves, something else stirred. Excitement. This was a far cry from her usual environs, and its contrasts fascinated her. The area was gritty, alive, and pulsated with vibrant energy. It was a glimpse into the churning wheels of industry that powered working London and which was forbidden to women of her class.

“There is not much to them—” He broke off as a leather ball came hurtling toward them.

With an agility that startled her, Brett lifted his foot and deflected it with his Hessian boot. It landed harmlessly on the ground, and he sent it sailing with a hard kick.

“Baines, how many time have I told you to keep your lot away from the banks of the river? I am not replacing another one of these.”

“Righto, Guv. Right sorry, I am. We was on Broad Street, but we might 'ave lost our ways.” The lanky youth with a shock of unruly black hair spilling out of his cap had the gall to wink.

“I am sure you did,” Brett said dubiously. “See that you find your bearings and move along.”

The boy tipped his hat, and with a piercing whistle that rent the air, he gathered his cronies and headed off with a jaunty wave.

“A saucy one, he is,” Brett muttered. “But he is an enterprising lad. And, of course, a former thief. Turn here, the offices are up ahead on the left.”

“Thief I can believe,” Emily said. “Enterprising?”

“Oh, that he is. At low tide, he and his grime-faced friends scour the mud looking for items to sell such as coal, rope, copper, and nails.” He shrugged. “Dubbed mudlarks. More often than not, they pilfer from the river traffic,” he groused.

Fascinated, Emily furrowed her brow. “How do you know his surname?”

“Caught him in the act of nicking my wallet.” His grin slipped from his lips and his eyes darkened. “He was not working in the mud because he had sliced his foot on glass. After I got a surgeon to stitch him up, I offered him a safer job sweeping the offices. Injuries such as his are the hazards of their occupation, but poverty drives them back to the mud because it is the only living his lot can scrounge up. Perhaps when enough of them die, your aristocracy will be moved to find other means of employment for those born beneath their class, or more so, their attentions.”

She noticed his clenched jaw and held her silence, having no argument against his accusation. Her peers preferred to insulate themselves from poverty and its harsh ramifications plaguing those who suffer from it.

“Here we are,” Brett said, stopping before a nondescript, two-story, red brick building. He opened the front door and gave a shallow bow. “Welcome to Curtis Shipping or rather, one of our more humble and cluttered offices.”

Emily stepped eagerly inside, pushing off her hood as she did so. The room was a long rectangular space with desks filling the floor and entrances to offices lining the back wall. Clerks occupied the desks, while groups of men studied nautical maps tacked to the wall. Charts covered one wall and prints of square-rigged vessels hung on adjacent ones. A few bookcases and racks stood in the back beside cabinets, a few with drawers jutting open and bursting with files.

The energy was palpable. Men moved between offices, a few firing directives to the clerks, while others dug through
files, and conversation flowed with a fierce animation. She had entered another world, and it riveted her.

As the men became aware of their arrival, like a ripple rushing across a lake, silence spread over the room.

“Gentlemen, we have a visitor,” Brett announced, stating the obvious. “This is Bedford's sister-in-law, Lady Emily Chandler. Forgive our intrusion and continue on with your work. However, with so lovely a distraction, I'll settle for your maintaining the appearance of looking productive because with luck, you might succeed in being so.”

His words elicited laughs and grins, until a gentleman cleared his throat and bowed deeply. There ensued a mass movement of dips and bows as all men followed suit.

“Perhaps it is a good thing that your aristocracy disparages work in trade,” Brett said beneath his breath. “Your set would be so preoccupied with paying the proper obeisance to each other's rank, that they would never get a thing accomplished.”

She refused to snicker, but her lips twitched. “Today the fault is yours. Work stopped when you introduced a woman into a man's domain. Quite scandalous,” she said, her words for Brett alone as she nodded to the men. It was a shame that women were banned from business environs, because this was far more entertaining than any ladies' gardening club, community service, or the mundane domestic activities to which her sex was relegated.

“My company, my responsibility, my rules. However, I was given no choice in the matter, as you did insist on joining this meeting. Obdurate.”

“Determined. This man is discussing Jason's work. My fiancé, my responsibility, my rules—despite your stipulations.”

He glanced at her, his expression amused. “Fair enough. But do not smile at anyone. They will never recover.”

Before she could respond to the offhand compliment, a man separated himself from the group. Young and sandy-haired, his hazel eyes brimmed with laughter. “Lady Emily, it is a pleasure.” He dipped his head. “Curtis, your arrival is fortuitous. I was looking for an excuse for them to do
nothing and be compensated for the lost time. I could not have found a lovelier one.”

Brett clasped the man's shoulder. “Well, then, consider this an opportunity to prove your stellar management capabilities by keeping the men on task.”

The young man appeared to ponder Brett's words a moment before he responded. “Fire me now because failure is the inevitable conclusion in all futile undertakings.”

Laughing, Brett turned to her and introduced Owen Jenkins, his office manager. “I cannot do without the man, so I lured him away from our Boston offices and put him in charge here.”

Their teasing banter surprised her. They appeared more friends than owner and manager. English kept a respectful formality between employer and employee. However, she identified Mr. Jenkins's accent as American, so perhaps business relationships in America were more casual—or they were so under Brett's employ.

After greetings were exchanged, Mr. Jenkins lowered his voice. “Your friend sent word that he is running late, but should arrive shortly. I advised Baines and his boys to keep an eye out for him.”

“So that is what they were doing along the banks,” Brett said.

Mr. Jenkins then begged Emily's pardon and requested a few minutes to discuss matters needing Brett's attention.

The manager's questions ran the gamut from shipping schedules to the inventory on one of their packet ships. His head bowed, expression serious, Brett listened, occasionally interjecting a comment or giving a response to one of Mr. Jenkins's queries.

She followed them over to a wall chart that listed the names of various packet ships, their tonnage capacity, and departure timetables.

Noting her interest, Mr. Jenkins nodded to the chart. “This here changed the course of passenger travel.”

“Due to its accounting of tonnage capacity?” She frowned, bemused.

Brett laughed and shook his head. “After the war with America ended in 1813, the increase in shipping lines crossing the Atlantic caused ship owners to experiment with regular timetables to deal with the increase in traffic. Before the war, passengers traveling on packet lines had to wait until the cargo holds were filled before departing. This meant passengers often had to wait weeks to travel. That is no longer the case with the implementation of these schedules. With the advent of steam, travel will become even more efficient, no longer being at the whim of the wind.”

“However, that is still years away,” Mr. Jenkins said.

“But it is coming,” Brett said with conviction. He pointed to a print of a vessel hanging nearby. “This is the
Savannah
, the first steamship to cross the Atlantic. She left Savannah, Georgia, on May 26, 1819 and arrived at Liverpool twenty-five days later.”

There was wonder in Brett's voice, excitement lighting his eyes as he admired the full-rigged ship. Following his gaze, she frowned. “But it has sails.”

Brett pointed to the hull of the ship. “It also has a ninety-horsepower steam engine which powered the trip for eighteen days, while the sails were used for the remaining seven. The paddle wheels could be folded up when they were not in use—”

A cough interrupted them and Brett turned to Mr. Jenkins, whose expression was amused. “I am not sure Lady Emily appreciates your love affair with speed. Curtis Shipping's interests may rest upon it, but alas, no one else's does.”

To Emily's wonderment, a light flush stole across Brett's cheeks. At his boyish chagrin, something moved in her chest. Like a window she had shut had been blown open. It was little wonder that after Jason's death, she had never responded to any other man until Brett Curtis stumbled into her life. He was like no one other.

He rescued mudlarks from working in the Thames, waxed effusive about his work, and had a casual, almost jocular relationship with his employees.

He was different. Irreverent, intelligent, driven, and . . . passionate.

If he expended this much passion toward steam engines, she could only imagine what he would be like if he applied equal zeal in his attentions to a woman's body. The steam they could unleash would power the
Savannah
across the ocean and back.

Good lord. Where had that come from?

A shiver swept through her body.

Brett dipped his head, and a sheepish grin curved his lips. “My apologies. Thank you, Jenkins. I tend to forget my audience. Admittedly, I cannot fathom why no one else is equally enamored with steam-powered vessels.”

“It does boggle the mind,” Mr. Jenkins said, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Emily found herself rising to Brett's defense. “It is fascinating, and if it is the wave of the future, then Curtis Shipping will be at the forefront of it. I assume you have plans to invest in steam-powered vessels?” She sincerely hoped he pursued . . . steam. As both men stared at her, she flushed and clasped her hands before her. “Because as you say, it is lucrative to do so, speed being vital to making timely shipments.”

Brett tossed back his head and laughed. “Careful, Jenkins, if she grasps the import of this innovation so quickly, your job could be in jeopardy.”

Mr. Jenkins smiled. “I stand forewarned. Perhaps I should prove my mettle by prodding our audience back to work. Lady Emily, it has been a pleasure.” He bowed and quietly departed.

At his words, Emily looked around, catching the men's gazes shift and heads quickly dip. Grinning, she turned back to find Brett speaking with another man.

When the man left, Brett addressed Emily. “While I was rhapsodizing over steam engines, I have been advised that my friend came in through our back entrance. He is waiting in my office. Shall we?”

She followed Brett through one of the closed doors. The
room was not large or ostentatious, which surprised her as she had imagined the owner's workspace to reflect the prosperity of the company. His was more serviceable, with a sturdy oak desk and a pair of chairs before it. Similar to the outer room, charts, bookcases, and more pictures of ships vied for space on the walls.